Jonah took a deep breath in the chill autumn air, letting it fill his lungs and trying to calm himself down.  The dirt circle of the practice ring looked peculiarly familiar and yet at the same time brand new.  Someone had raked the dirt so that it had a concentric circle pattern, the weapon racks were all neatly assembled at the edges of the ring and there were pristine white benches set up for the combat master and the instructors.  Jonah bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, excitement and nervous anticipation thrumming through his small frame.  He rolled his shoulders in the ill-fitting practice leathers and began pacing around the dirt.

"Don't do anything stupid today Jonah," a deep voice rumbled from behind him.

Jonah turned, an impish smile on his face, "Ah, Odon!  I've never done anything stupid!  You know that!"  He widened his smile a little more.

Odon grunted and crossed his huge arms.  Of all the other trainees, Jonah knew that Odon would be his toughest competition for top spot in the fighting school.  The young man was huge, bald, and muscled like an ox.  He could swing his preferred weapon, a twenty pound maul, like a fencer with a rapier and the big man was surprisingly quick on his feet.  Jonah glanced at him and yawned theatrically, "I'm not worried at all.  How about you?"

Odon frowned a little in thought, considering.  He always considered things carefully.  Odon had about the most stable temperament of any man Jonah had ever known.  His careful, deliberate pauses before speaking always made others think he was a little slow, but Jonah knew Odon was a very intelligent young man.  He just preferred to consider every angle before making a decision.  "You're an idiot Jonah.  You do realize that today's the final exam right?  All the instructors will be here.  We'll actually go into the mountains and do a mission.  Your performance will determine whether or not you graduate."

Jonah rolled his eyes and waved off Odon's concerns.  "You worry too much.  We'll be fine!  Come on, let's get a bite to eat before the test starts."

Odon nodded and headed off the practice field toward the mess hall.  Jonah hurried to keep up with him, brushing some of his long black hair off his face as he struggled to match the big man's pace.  They walked for a while in companionable silence, their breath misting out in front of them in the chill autumn morning air.  The sun was low on the horizon, but already today promised to be a brilliant fall day.  The fighting school was just stirring to life as the two friends made their way to the mess hall.

The mess hall was nearly empty.  Only a few early risers were getting their breakfasts from the large, buffet-style counter that had been loaded with hearty food.  Plates piled with sausages, baskets full of crusty bread, large bowls filled with scrambled eggs, and carafes of hot black coffee steamed along the board.  Odon piled his plate high with sausages and eggs, then took a healthy helping of coffee before he made his way to one of the long tables that were arranged throughout the mess hall.  Jonah followed, grabbing a loaf of bread, a sausage, and a mug of coffee.

Jonah broke his loaf of bread in half and stuffed his sausage into it, taking a big bite.  Odon raised his eyebrow at him, but didn't speak as he stuffed his face with the scrambled eggs.  They ate in silence as the mess hall slowly filled up.  The school wasn't nearly as popular as it once was though, so even when every student was in the hall, there were several empty tables.  Jonah glanced around at the other students and his eye caught on Everleigh as she sat with her small group of friends chatting animatedly.  She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she laughed at some joke or other and she took a delicate sip of coffee from her mug.  

"Your eyes will dry out," Odon remarked laconically, "Blink."

Jonah grinned, "Today's the day, Odon!  When I graduate, I'll--"

"Stumble over  your words like every time you've tried to talk to her before.  Yes, I know."  Odon's face was very carefully blank.

"Girls find that endearing!"  Jonah protested, "Besides, once I've graduated, I'll be irresistible."

"Everleigh is taking her final today too."

Jonah rolled his eyes, "You're just a ball of cheer and sunshine today, aren't you?" Odon took another large bite of eggs and did not respond.  "Look at her though!  That hair, those ice blue eyes!  Those breasts!  Gods, the breasts on that girl!"

"I'm sure the gods are proud of their work, Jonah, though they probably meant for you to notice a bit more than just her chest," Odon grumbled, "Eat.  Or you won't be impressing anyone."

Jonah looked at his sausage bread and tucked it into his pocket.  He took a last gulp of his coffee and smiled at Odon, "Horse piss.  I'm not waiting!  I'm gonna talk to her now!"

Odon raised an eyebrow at him and slowly put his fork down.  He crossed his arms and said, "Well, this promises to be entertaining."

Jonah flashed another smile and made his way over to Everleigh's table, trying to affect a confident swagger.  He tossed his short cloak over one shoulder and approached Everleigh's table.  "Good morning, Everleigh!"  He tried to say.  Instead, it came out as a mumbled, "Mornin'... erm, uh... hi!  Um, Everlei... heh."

Everleigh didn't seem to notice, but her friends had gone quiet.  Everleigh continued talking, not even noticing that Jonah was standing behind her until she caught one of her friend's looks and glanced over her shoulder, "Oh!  Um... Jeremiah, isn't it?  Is there, uh, something you, uh, needed?"  She looked mildly confused, pursing her full red lips.

Jonah groaned inwardly and tried to laugh it off.  "HA!" he barked, far too loudly, "Uhm... Sorry," he mumbled much too quietly.  He looked desperately at their table and grasped at the first thing he saw, "I, uh, was just wondering... Um... Could I have, uh, th-the butter?  Weranout."  He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling like he was about to throw up.

Everleigh glanced over at the butter dish  and handed it to him.  "Sure! You know, they have butter up at the main table, right?"  Her friends laughed.  Jonah felt his world crumbling around him.

He managed a weak smile and said, "Right!  Uh... but you were... closer?"  He stared at Everleigh's delicate hand, holding the butter dish to him, thinking about kissing it.

Everleigh looked at her friends, then back at Jonah.  "Okay... well... do you want to take the butter?  Some of us have to get ready for the final."

Jonah started and grinned manically.  He snatched the butter dish out of her hand and bobbed a clumsy bow.  "Uh, thanks!"  He rushed back over to his table, face burning with embarrassment.  Everleigh and her friends burst into laughter as he left.

Jonah collapsed onto the bench across from Odon, who began slowly clapping his huge hands and grinning.  "Well done Jonah.  Well done.  I think she swooned.  Is that what it's called when the girl laughs at you?  I'm pretty sure it is."

"Laugh all you want, Odon.  When she sees me fight today, she'll be swooning all right.  You'll see!"  He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the table.  "That was terrible."

Odon shook his head, chuckling, "It was certainly... instructive.  I now know what to do if I want to literally die of embarrassment.  I honestly don't know how you managed to survive."  He grabbed the other half of the loaf of bread Jonah had taken.  "By the way... do you have any butter?"

Jonah lifted his head and scowled.  "I hope Master Llewellyn has us fight today.  That'll wipe that stupid grin off your stupid face."

"Jonah, I'll never understand how you can be so hopelessly tongue-tied when speaking to girls and yet be a complete swaggering ass when it comes to everything else."  

"Years of talent and practice, Odon." Jonah sighed and stood up.  "I'm not hungry anymore.  Ready?"

Odon shrugged and waved the hunk of bread at Jonah, "Still need some butter for this..."

Jonah glared at him acidly and said, "I've been told that the main table has butter."  He turned and stalked from the mess hall, ignoring the other students around him.

Although the incident with Everleigh in the mess hall had been truly awful, the nervous excitement he had been feeling earlier began to crowd out even that embarrassment.  As he hurried out of the mess hall across the grounds to his spartan, cell-like dormitory, Jonah began to jog trying to burn off some of the extra energy.  He sped across the grounds, seeing the familiar Llewellyn Fighting School with new eyes.

The school was spread out in the north side of Dimwell Dale with Knothole Creek cutting along the east side of the grounds.  It was only a half hour walk from the village, Heroes' Rest, and the entire school was spread out around a series of different practice grounds.  There was a long dirt track with a wooden rail to serve as a list for lance and jousting practice, a series of bigger and smaller dirt rings for weapons practice.  Jonah had spent the vast majority of his time at Llewellyn Fighting School in the practice grounds.  When he was younger, his perspective had, more often than not, been even with the carefully raked dirt of the weapons training rings.

The mess hall was situated on the east side of the practice fields with the dormitories on the south side.  It was a long, low building constructed entirely for practical purposes with a kitchen at one end and the large dining hall at the other.  Currently, the majority of the students were gathered in the mess hall devouring their breakfasts.  For most of them, it was just another day starting at the school.  But for Jonah and a mere half dozen others, today would determine if they had what it took to become an Adventurer of the Realm.

On the north was Grim Hall, the school's gathering hall where different official functions were performed and the administrative staff had their offices.  Though the building was relatively small, it was nonetheless crafted with great care.  The cornices on the outside of the building had been carved with frescoes picturing various warriors throughout history in attitudes of combat.  There were large windows that let natural light into main theater which was designed to hold assemblies of the entire student body. Various banners and trophies hung from the walls and ceiling of the theater and the whole theater was lit with warm orange and yellow glow-lamps.  The big oak double doors were closed at the moment, though Jonah knew that by tomorrow evening, they would be opened while the potential graduates were on their graduation missions.  When senior students were on their finals, the doors of the hall remained open until the last of them had returned--or their bodies had been recovered.

Finally, on the west side of the grounds was the large, bunker-like structure that made up the Armory.  Within its thick stone walls were rack upon rack of various weapons.  From the prosaic to the truly exotic, the Armory had an example of just about every weapon employed in war; there was a section in the Armory that dealt entirely with improvised and street weapons.  There were even indoor practice areas where the students could practice unarmed fighting techniques and use various exercise equipment.  Jonah now taught first-year students hand-to-hand grappling and dirty fighting techniques as a part of his senior class schedule.

The first day Jonah had arrived here from City 12, he'd only been thirteen years old and covered in the grime of the streets.  Master Llewellyn himself had offered him a place at the school.  When he arrived at the school, he'd been inducted into the rolls in Grim Hall's main theater.  The eighty or so students who had gathered there had applauded him as Master Llewellyn had paraded him out onto the stage and introduced him.  Even now, Jonah's hands prickled with cold sweat remembering that day.  He'd been a complete wreck of jangled nerves, nothing like he was today.  Mostly.  Except around Everleigh.  Or Miriam.  Or Faye.  Or, well, any of the girls at the school, though there were precious few.  Most of the girls in Heroes' Rest preferred Rodrick's Academy of the Arts for aspiring bards, or maybe the Shadow Consortium where they learned how to tease locks and hide in plain sight and exactly where to place a dagger in someone's back to produce the most damaging results (though in Jonah's considered opinion, girls tended to be naturally gifted at that particular skill).

The dormitories were situated on the east side of the grounds and Jonah jogged up to the plain wooden door that let him into the common room.  The dormitory had five floors that, in more prosperous times, had been filled to capacity, housing over a hundred and fifty students.  Today, only fifty three students attended Llewellyn Fighting School and there were rumors that such poor attendance meant that the school would close its doors for good if things didn't turn around soon.  Jonah wasn't too concerned about that possibility.  Everyone knew that Master Llewellyn had been a very successful Adventurer when he was younger, bringing in a king's ransom in gold from his adventures.

He opened the door and saw a few second-year students talking together at one of the tables in the common room.  They were gathered around a large sheet of green paper and Jonah smiled at the sight.  Everyone learned to hate the sight of green paper.  It meant that Master Cleve had assigned one of his brutal tactical puzzles in a strategy scenario that everyone was convinced he devised while twirling his huge moustache and laughing maniacally.  Also lounging in one of the easy chairs by the large hearth reading one of the Entertainment glossies that got shipped in from the Cities was Alistair Langley.  Jonah scowled silently at the indolent young man and walked as quietly as he could into the common room toward the staircase.

Alistair had kicked one leg onto the arm of the easy chair and was idly thumbing through the glossy as Jonah passed him.  He had just reached the staircase when Alistair's nasal drawl stopped him in his tracks, "Just like you to sneak around like a thief, Jonah.  Off to rub one off before you get drummed out of the school for incompetence?  I suppose I can't blame you... No girl is likely to let you fumble around under her skirts with your grubby little hands."

Jonah sighed and tried to count to ten.  He had heard that this was supposed to help him calm down.  He stopped between three and four.  "You nobles have a funny way of figuring out what 'incompetence' means, don't you?  I mean, isn't this the third time you'll be taking the final?"

Alistair tossed the glossy to the side and stood, face reddening and his handsome features locked in fury.  "How dare you!  You're nothing but a stinking, filthy street urchin jumped up on his own importa--"

"Go fuck yourself Alistair," Jonah interrupted, "After the final, I'll never have to see you again, you drooling troll.  But that's an insult to trolls, isn't it?  Right now, you look more like a gravid ogre whore, what with your face all red like that."

With an incoherent yell, Alistair launched himself at Jonah, hands crooked into strangling claws.  Since he had about ten yards to traverse before he made it to him, Jonah reflected that this was more comical than threatening and allowed himself an impertinent grin as he minutely adjusted his stance.  As soon as the furious young nobleman had reached him, hands going for his throat, Jonah neatly sidestepped and drove a knee into Alistair's stomach.  As Alistair crumpled, gasping for breath, Jonah followed him down, guiding him roughly onto his back and then resting his knee on his chest.  Casually, he produced a knife from one of his many hidden sheaths and cleaned his nails with the keen blade.

"Y'know Alistair, the problem with you--and really all you noble types--is that you think you're always right.  That you can do whatever you want."  Jonah leaned in a little harder with his knee and pointed his knife blade at Alistair's right eye.  "Well you can't and you aren't.  Don't.  Fuck.  With.  Me.  Huh, I guess you were right about one thing.  I am from the streets.  I learned a few things there, too.  Things they don't teach you in the banquet halls and ballrooms of the nobility.  Things--"  Jonah cut off as he felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.  He glanced over his shoulder at the simply massive young man to whom the hand belonged.

"Pray tell, master Jonah, what things did they teach you about knowing with whom to pick your fights?"  The voice that came out of the barrel-like chest was incongruously high and soft.  The doughy face from which those words depended was never going to be handsome and the small, wide-set eyes set deep into the sockets of that face glittered with sharklike violence.

Jonah gulped.  "Ah, hello there Clive.  Eaten any babies lately?"  Jonah cursed himself as soon as the words left his mouth.  Clive could be a bit tense about barbs about his parentage.  The hand on his shoulder tightened its vice-like grip painfully.

"One might think that someone such as yourself would strive to disprove the stereotypes that persist about your kind, master Jonah.  The stereotypes that have informed my good friend, Alistair's, notable distaste for you and all you represent.  I see that, at least in this instance, my friend's assertions about your nature were unfortunately well-earned."  Clive's muscles bunched and he easily lifted Jonah off of Alistair.  His face showed no strain whatsoever as he casually tossed Jonah ten feet away to land in a heap in the middle of the common room.  Jonah's head struck the hardwood floor with an audible clonk that sent his vision spinning and darkening at the edges; his knife fell from suddenly nerveless fingers while his knees felt weak and his limbs uncoordinated.

The huge man then bent down to help Alistair to his feet.  Jonah knew he had to get up and get out of there soon or he'd be in for the beating of his life.  Odon wasn't there to save him this time and Clive had the soul of a killer while Alistair was vindictive and bloody-minded enough to have Clive cripple him for life.  Or worse.  He struggled to stay conscious as the blackness around the edges of his vision threatened to close in.  His head ached terribly from the bump on the floor and he couldn't get his arms and legs to obey him.

"Thank you, Clive," Jonah heard Alistair say a little breathlessly.  He heard footsteps approaching him and through his dizziness, he could see the impeccably booted feet of Alistair next to the well-made steel-toed combat boots Clive liked to wear.  "Now... what shall we do with you?  Well, I know where to start."  Alistair viciously kicked him in the ribs, then immediately drove his foot into his gut.  Jonah retched, and suddenly found he couldn't breathe.

"A fine kick, Alistair," Clive's soft voice murmured.  "It seems that your studies of human anatomy have paid off in dividends."  Alistair laughed and kicked Alistair in the face, causing Jonah's vision to explode in stars as he felt hot blood start flowing from his split lips and nose.

Just then, the common room door slammed open.  Odon stood in the doorway, gripping his favored weapon, an enormous twenty pound maul, in both hands.  He took in the tableau before him in one glance and growled, "Good morning Clive.  Alistair.  Is there some kind of trouble here?"

Alistair sneered and seemed about to speak, but Clive place on of his large hands on his shoulder and Alistair subsided.  "Master Odon.  How nice to see you this morning.  This is merely a friendly disagreement.  Alistair and master Jonah here were simply continuing an interrupted conversation.  I was eager to see the argument concluded.  It appears that this will have to wait.  Come along Alistair.  Let us repair to your quarters so that you might prepare yourself for this afternoon's final examination."  Clive nodded at Odon, though his tiny black eyes glittered with hatred.

When Alistair and Clive had left, Odon crossed the common area.  The second-years had cleared out earlier, so the common room was, for the moment, empty save for Odon and Jonah.  Jonah groaned and tried to sit up, blood still streaming from his mouth and nose.  Odon helped him into a sitting position and Jonah winced at a sharp pain in his side.  "Don't try to speak," Odon said, "Gods, your face is a bloody mess.  Come on, let's get you to medical.  They'll patch you up."

Jonah shook his head woozily.  It was hard to speak and his words came out a slurred mess, but he struggled through, "Jus' gemme to m'room.  Gomme a poshun."

Odon raised a skeptical eyebrow, but nodded and helped Jonah up the stairs to his room.  The going was difficult, but they eventually got to his room and Odon helped Jonah lay down on his thin cot.  Jonah leaned over the cot, grimacing at the pain, and pulled a small tin box from under it.  He fumbled the box open and a few possessions tumbled out.  A small, simple knife that seemed to be made of sharpened scrap metal with a handle wrapped in a leather cord; a small, faded phototype of a weary-looking woman with mousy brown hair and a small resemblance to Jonah; a few interesting rocks; and a thin glass vial with a syrupy purple liquid inside sealed with a cork.  Jonah grabbed the little vial and pulled the cork out with his teeth while Odon watched with a bemused expression on his face.

"Where in the howling Abyss did you get your hands on a healing potion?  You know those are controlled, right?"

Jonah tried to grin, but it hurt too much.  Instead, he tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth and swallowed, grimacing at the taste.  The thick liquid tasted like overripe plums just on the verge of going rotten and the taste suffused his sinuses until it was all he could smell, too.  Almost immediately, heat seemed to well up from his stomach and spread in waves that matched his heartbeat.  The pain in his side subsided and he felt his swollen lips and nose stop their persistent dull throb.  He gasped as the potion magically made him whole once more and then just laid back on his cot, breathing heavily.

After a while, Jonah spoke again, "Gods, I hate that stuck-up prick."

"You need to hate poorer people, Jonah.  Or less powerful people at least.  And you still didn't answer my question.  Where did you get that potion?"

Jonah grinned, "I lifted it off of Alistair a couple weeks ago," he sat up and ran a hand through his long black hair, pushing it off his forehead.  "The little prick had it on him in his pocket, just begging to be stolen."  He lifted up the vial and turned it, examining a small gold etching on the side.  He grunted with a subdued laugh, "Look, it even has the Langley House seal on it!"

Odon sighed heavily and snatched the empty vial out of Jonah's hands.  He glanced at the seal and cursed under his breath.  "You could get in a lot of trouble for that, you know?"  He dropped the vial onto the floor and stomped on it, smashing the delicate glass and grinding it into powder.  "They're expensive."

Jonah rolled his eyes and stretched, wiping at the blood drying on his chin.  "What'd be the point in stealing it if it wasn't?" He got up off his bed and crossed to the small mirror hanging above the washbasin, staring critically at his reflection.  His hair was a complete wreck, stuck together with his own blood.  His face was plastered with drying blood, giving him a decidedly ghoulish appearance.  He touched the small, faceted crystal on the stand by the wash basin and the basin filled with lukewarm water.  Jonah scrubbed at his face and continued talking, "I imagine it'd be too much to hope that little lord Langley meets an untimely end during the final, wouldn't it?"

Odon smiled slowly and sat down at Jonah's small desk in the uncomfortable wooden chair.  "You really need to pick your enemies better.  I mean, I know you hate him and all--have done for years--but can't you just let it pass sometimes?  I can't be here to save your bony ass all the time."

Jonah scowled at Odon's reflection in the mirror, water dripping from his face.  "No, I most emphatically can't let it pass.  Pricks like Alistair Langley need to know that they can't just get away with anything.  It's good to take them down a peg or three when you can.  Besides, I never did anything to him.  He started this whole thing."  The water in the basin had turned light pink from the blood he had washed away.  Jonah touched the crystal by the washbasin again and the water drained away noiselessly, taking his blood with it.

"Oh I know," Odon said seriously, "But he's a noble you idiot.  Best thing for you to do is take his jibes and keep your head down."

Jonah toweled his face off with the small hand towel lying crumpled on the washbasin counter, "I can't, Odon.  I've tried, but that bastard has always known exactly what sets me off.  It's like he gets off on it."

Odon chuckled, "I wouldn't put it that way, but I see your point.  Still, maybe it's best if you avoid him.  I mean, if I hadn't come in, you might have met with your own untimely end this morning."

Jonah put the towel down and combed his fingers through his hair, scrutinizing the effect.  It didn't help much.  His long nose still stuck out beakishly and his cheekbones still stuck out too much.  He had the beginnings of a bear growing on his face, but at the moment, it just looked like he had failed to wipe his mouth after eating.  His complexion was still terrible, with angry red spots standing out brightly against his pale skin around his mouth and his temples.  Jonah tied his hair back with one of the dozens scattered around on the counter, then pulled a few strands free to hide the pimples at his temples.

Odon got up and stood behind him at the sink, smirking slightly as Jonah primped.  "With a face like that, it's a wonder you don't get all the girls."

"Ha. Ha.  You're a regular soul of wit, aren't you?  Come on, let's get going.  I want to get some practice in before I have to fight for real."  The two left his room, joking and laughing as they made their way to the practice field.

Liliana Montague stared at the page in front of her in complete, focused concentration.  The arcane sigils and diagrams seemed to dance across the fine vellum, their spidery thin ink lines almost merging as she tried to work out why her schematic had failed so spectacularly.  Her left arm was still covered in a sticky kind of soot that refused to wash off her skin no matter what kind of scrubbing she did and she had a feeling that she'd have need of the spell she was working on later on today.  In just a few short hours, she was supposed to make her way down to the Llewellyn Fighting School and meet up with the hopeful graduates to serve as the Magisterium's representative.  Which would be fine if she was actually a member of the Magisterium.

The schematic refused to give up its secrets.  Growling with frustration, she slammed her notebook shut and resisted the urge to hurl it across her cramped chambers.  Such undisciplined action was decidedly not how a member of the Magisterium was supposed to comport herself.  She scowled unconsciously, like she did every time she thought about the Magisterium.  She deserved admittance.  It was her master that was holding her back.  Not that old Barnabas Thistlethwaite was a master of anything.  Except maybe drinking.  Or being free with his hands whenever he wanted.  Oh yes, he was good at those.  But Liliana was already twenty years old and had been studying practical magical schematics and applied eldritch theory for twelve years now--well beyond the normally required seven year apprenticeship.

But her master was a washout from the Magisterium.  Old Barnabas was a bitter, miserly teacher who was more interested in getting drunk and cursing the Magisterium than teaching an apprentice.  But Liliana had never let that stop her from forging ahead.  Barnabas may resent the Magisterium for assigning him a two-millennia-old position in the far-flung nowhere village of Heroes' Rest, but he had gone there with all the pomp and ceremony a full member of the Magisterium in good standing could muster.  Which meant that the small house assigned to him was stuffed with massive pieces of overworked furniture and, more importantly, huge dark bookshelves full of advanced magical theory.  Liliana had discovered Barnabas's proclivities when she was still young enough not to have a woman's curves (and therefore not as interesting to the old lecher) and had set to reading through his extensive library in a desperate effort of self education.

It had paid off in sporadic and haphazard fashion.  Liliana knew she was a brilliant theoretic magician.  She could work her way through complex thaumaturgical algorithms with ease, and follow along in the scholarly debates and discussions in Arcanum Quarterly that still came by post to the house (and that master Thistlethwaite tossed in the bin when they did, always cursing loudly and acerbically in three different languages).  But practical schema were not as neat and logical as the theory she loved so well.  Spelling was tetchy and precise work that required a strange kind of thaumic empathy or sympathy to correctly pull off; a way of tipping the mind into the ether while still remaining fully focused on the spellwork that still escaped Liliana's grasp.

Liliana sighed and navigated around her cluttered room.  It was probably time to start thinking about getting changed if she was going to make it to the Fighters' graduation ceremony.  She was dressed in a practical, heavy canvass lab coat with a variety of faded burns, stains, and neatly patched rips all over it.  It would not do for prospective Adventurers to get the impression that Magisters showed up to any event in such workaday garb.  Not that Liliana had a whole lot of choice.  Her wardrobe was depressingly devoid of choice.  The one outfit she had was dreadfully old-fashioned, and she suspected that she had outgrown it two years ago.

She picked the dress out of her wardrobe, which was filled with variations on the smock she was wearing.  It was a faded blue cotton affair with silver buttons, definitely too small, she decided as she held it up to her and examined it in the full-body mirror.  She wouldn't fill it out any better than she had the first time she had worn it--at Master Thistlethwaite's insistence--but she had definitely gown out of it.  The dress was supposed to go to her ankles and it now, she saw despondently, rode up to mid-shin.  Liliana sighed and tossed the dress onto her overstuffed bed.  She was just pulling her lab smock off and wriggling into the blue dress when Master Thistlethwaite's deep voice filtered through her closed door, "Liliana!  Lily!  Gods curse it, Liliana Montague!  Where are you?!"

Liliana finished pulling her dress on, noting that it fit well enough around the shoulders (and chest, she noted sourly), but the waist rode too high and her shins weren't even half covered by the hemline.  She sighed and exited the room, still pulling on the fabric of the dress to adjust it more comfortably.  Her blackened left hand irritated her, but she wound her way through the crowded hallway with deftness born of experience.  The small house that the Magisterium had granted to Master Thistlethwaite had been filled to bursting with heavy dark wood furniture.  The upstairs hallway was no exception.  Small settees, large gilt portraits of past residents, thin tables cluttered with various personal effects and books crowded the narrow hall all the way to the creaky stairs.

Liliana hurried down the curving staircase, and into the small study.  Master Thistlethwaite was standing there, large hands on his hips and dressed in his customary shabby suit.  The Master of Sentinel's Home was heavyset with thinning slate gray hair combed and oiled straight back.  His wide face was covered in a salt-and-pepper beard.  His face, normally red, was of a more normal color and instead of his usual scowl, he was smiling cheerfully.  His smile widened as he Liliana entered the room.  "Ah, there you are!  I have fantastic news!  Please, sit, sit!"  He gestured to an overstuffed chair that was miraculously free of books and papers.  In fact, the entire study seemed to be devoid of its normal clutter.  Startled by the cheerful welcome, Liliana slowly sat down in the proffered chair.

Master Thistlethwaite bustled around the enormous ebony desk that dominated the study.  He sat down in the creaking leather chair with a grunt and gripped the arms of the chair, still smiling.  "Would you care for a drink, my dear?"  Without waiting for her response, he opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a crystal decanter of his favorite brandy along with two carved crystal tumblers.  He poured a generous measure into both tumblers and pushed hers across to her.

Wordlessly, Liliana took the drink and held it in her hands, not quite sure what to make of her master's sudden turn of temper.  Cheerfully, Master Thistlethwaite lifted his glass in a toast and said, "To new beginnings, my girl.  Yes, to new beginnings, and to welcome ends!"  He took a deep swallow from the glass, smacking his lips.  "Well, drink up girl!  It's bad luck not to drink after a toast!"  He chuckled as Liliana took a tentative sip from her own tumbler.

The brandy burned her throat sharply and she had to cough to clear her throat.  "What--" she coughed again as her throat closed up on her.  She tried again, "What is the occasion, Master?"  Her voice was a bit higher pitched than normal and she cleared her throat again.

"The occasion, my dear, is simply this: at the end of the month, our little engagement here, is going to be at an end!"  Smiling, he finished off the brandy in his glass and set it back on the desk, resting his hands on his large belly, tapping his fingers happily.

"What, really?  What do you mean, 'our little engagement'?  You mean...?"  She couldn't even finish the question.

Master Thistlethwaite chuckled and poured another measure of brandy into his glass, nodding.  "Yes, yes, Lily.  I'm graduating you to a full member of the Magisterium.  A junior member, to be sure, but still.  You've more than earned it."  He raised his glass again, and, stunned, Liliana raised hers and drank again.  She burst into another coughing fit, but it wasn't nearly so bad this time as it had been earlier.

"Um, thank you, Master!  But, if it's not too much of an imposition, um, why?  I mean, thank you so much!  But... I had thought..."

"You thought, just like me, that our accursed exile would never end and you'd never see civilization again?"  Master Thistlethwaite shook his head, still smiling, "I can't blame you really..." He trailed off, suddenly reflective, and his smile fell from his face.  "I'm afraid that I haven't been a... shall we say, exemplary, master my dear.  I was bitter.  Bitter at my colleagues on the High Concordium.  I resented being sent out here to the middle of nowhere, so far from the nurturing light of civilization.  I took out that resentment on you.  For that, I am... well, it was an unfortunate set of circumstances to be sure."  He finished awkwardly, his face reddening slightly.

Liliana stared at him, her mouth slightly open.  This, she realized, was the only apology she was going to get.  It was the only concession her master would offer for the years of half-hearted lessons, desperate self-study, and constant attempts to climb into her bed.  She was about to say exactly what she thought of this, but clamped her mouth shut and forced a wooden smile onto her face.  The only thing speaking her mind would do would be to enrage the old lecher.  "Of course," she said tightly, "I understand, Master.  So, what changed?  Why are you suddenly being recalled?"

"The High Concordium is abolishing this posting, my dear!  They finally listened to me!"  The old man took another hearty gulp of the brandy in his glass and set it carefully down on the desk.

"But, Master... Isn't this posting important?  I mean, Sentinel's Home was put here to watch over the..."

Master Thistlethwaite's expression turned sour and he waved off her concern, "Poppycock!  This post has been a sentence of exile for two thousand years and you know it.  That miserable tableau at the peak of the mountain can look after itself without an important member of the Magisterium.  It has for two thousand years!"

"Of... of course, Master.  Right.  Only it's just that I've been studying the schematics of the spelling from the peak and--"

"Enough, girl!  I don't care.  If I never hear about that godsbedamned spellwork again, it will be too soon!"  He tossed back the rest of the brandy and his expression had turned thunderous. "Can't you just be happy?  Or was I too quick to give you the news?  Perhaps another five or so years toiling under another Master would drill some sense into you, eh?"

"No!"  She almost shouted, "No.  Of course not Master.  I'm sorry."

Master Thistlethwaite peered at her and she could tell the alcohol was taking its effect.  He let the silence stretch for a while, then he sighed and refilled his glass from the rapidly emptying decanter.  "Lily, my girl, you're a good girl, but you lack a sense of the politic.  Tell me, what are the three high principles of spellcraft?"

"Know your source of power, control the variables, double check your sums," she rattled off by rote.  Not that you ever taught me that, she thought.

"Exactly.  Spot on!  Now, what is the proper method for distilling thaumaturgons from a natural ley line?"

This question took as little thought as the first to answer, "Pull through your focus, prepare to vent heat and light through extraneous schema in your spellwork, and account for--"

"Quite, quite.  Very good.  How about Ethric's Theorem?"

"Etheric language is the verbal expression of thaumic equations and--"

"You've been studying!  Now, try this.  You've been invited to a charity dinner held by the Head Librarian of City 2--"

Liliana fiddled uncomfortably with her glass and broke in, "I don't see what this has to do with--"

"Hush now girl, consider this a final lesson," Master Thistlethwaite said firmly, if a bit slurred, "Now.  Where was I?"

"Charity dinner for the Head Librarian?"

"Right!"  Master Thistlethwaite beamed at her and took another drink.  "So, you've been invited to the dinner.  Your invitation has been sent on crisp card stock with a silver embossed serif font in italics.  It's addressed to Magistera Liliana and the invitation states that the dinner event shall happen in three days' time.  Now, my question, my dear is simply this: how were you offended by this?"

Liliana's mind was still juggling with the details of the scenario and she was drawing a blank.  What did this have to do with the study of the arcane?  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, realizing she had no idea what to say.  Master Thistlethwaite watched her intently.  As the silence stretched, Liliana grew more and more flustered.  Finally, Master Thistlethwaite spread his hands and smiled somewhat patronizingly, "There girl.  You see?  While you are no doubt a gifted student of the High Art, you are ill-prepared for the political struggles that enliven the lives of the most important people in the Realm.  The Magisterium is constantly testing its members and has evolved a high degree of nuance in etiquette and social mores.  This elaborate dance," he leaned back in his chair and opened another drawer as he spoke, digging around until he found a cigar, "This elaborate dance is vital for the continued growth and dominance of the Wise."  He lit the cigar with a flame produced from the tip of his finger.  Sourly, Liliana noted that he didn't even need to speak the Etheric language to create the small spelling.

"Yes, master."

Puffing on his cigar, large clouds of heavy smoke filling the room, Master Thistlethwaite chuckled, "Don't sound so sour, my dear.  Politics is a complex business!  Some people are born with a sense for the ebb and flow of the social pressures and some--like you--will have to work their whole lives at it to simply keep their heads above the political waters.  Don't worry," he said expansively, "I have every confidence in you, Liliana.  You may flail about a bit at first, but you'll find your equilibrium."

Master Thistlethwaite puffed for a while on his cigar as Liliana absorbed this new facet.  The silence stretched for a few minutes and Liliana wondered if their conversation was over when suddenly, Master Thistlethwaite seemed to remember something.  "Ah, that's right!  I had something for you.  A few things, really."  He opened yet another drawer in his massive ebony desk and rummaged around for a little bit before pulling out a long box with the emblem of the Magisterium--a laurel wreath with an open book and key-- stamped on it in gold embossing.  He slid it across the desk toward Liliana.

Liliana stood to take the box and ran her hands along the creamy exterior of the box, allowing her fingers to trace the emblem of the Magisterium in reverence.  She looked up at her master, grinning.  He nodded with an indulgent smile and took another puff of the cigar.  Liliana pulled the lid off the box and her vision went a little bit misty as she saw the contents.  There, nestled in the box were three items: an envelope with the seal of the Magisterium on it, just like on the cover of the box; a slim, polished black wand with a blueish silver tracery of inlaid wire that spelled her name out in the Etheric script; and a Magisterium robe, complete with her rank insignia embroidered on the left breast.  "Master..." Liliana said, voice suddenly thick with unexpected emotion and found she could not continue.  She swallowed and picked up the envelope.

Master Thistlethwaite blew out a long breath laden with cigar smoke and his smiling expression turned serious.  He set the cigar carefully down into a crystal ashtray and steepled his fingers in front of him.  When he spoke, his deep voice was quieter than his usual muted roar, "Liliana... I... It's not easy for me to say this..." He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.  He took a deep breath and soldiered on, "I know what you've been through.  That is, I know... what kind of Master I've been for you.  I've seen you up 'til the small hours of the morning, studying from those impossible books.  This posting... well, it hasn't been easy on me.  I've wasted my most promising years here... Thirty years!  Sitting in this forgotten little corner of the Realm, wasting away!  I stewed in that resentment.  Even moreso when a bratty little eight year old orphaned daughter of a family of shopkeepers was thrust upon me to apprentice--" he held his hands up, forestalling any protest, "that is what I thought at the time.  I was... unkind to you.  I know that.  I demanded much and provided little.  I was a... poor teacher."

Liliana stared at the big man who had been her Master for twelve years.  This sudden bout of introspective contrition was completely out of character for the fat old Magister.  He was ever the impatient, intolerant old tyrant, breath smelling of whiskey or beer.  She had no idea what to make of this sudden outpouring of almost paternal rhetoric.  Master Thistlethwaite sighed and picked up his cigar again, puffing contemplatively on it for a few seconds, "Even so, you have persevered.  You have bypassed all rational expectation of an apprentice in such a situation.  You have struggled through an additional five years of apprenticeship when most apprentices would have run off to the Cities to plead their case before the High Concordium and be granted their membership despite their master.

"So please, my dear, accept these tokens of my sincere appreciation for your years of hard work in dire straits.  Within the envelope is my personal recommendation letter for the High Concordium and a travel voucher for the outbound train leaving Heroes' Rest tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp, bound for City 1.  You shall travel in first class, in a manner befitting a member of the Magisterium, with every comfort afforded you.  I will follow you in a week's time; I hope that we can continue our working relationship in vastly more comfortable environs in the City and I shall be your guide through the choppy political waters of the Magisterium."

Liliana finally found her voice, "Thank you, Master Thistlethwaite.  I shall be honored to continue our association."  She cleared her throat and carefully replaced the lid on the box.  "What about the Llewellyn Fighting School's final?  I was to join the other apprentices to fulfill the role of Field Magister in the test mission the fighters would conduct."

"Ah yes, I remember now," Master Thistlethwaite said and he stood up from his desk.  "We can't very well let down the Fighters, can we?  Of course, you'll wear your Magisterium robes for the event.  Show them that you're on your way up!  Now, go on and get ready.  They'll be needing you soon and I still have much to prepare for my departure."

Liliana stood and gave the old Magister a respectful bow--a more genuine gesture of respect than she had ever offered before--and exited the room, barely feeling herself navigate the crowded hallways back up to her room.  Her head was spinning with the events of the past few minutes and she was clutching the box to her chest in a death grip.  When she reached her room, she stared around at the cluttered space and burst out laughing.  She laughed for several long minutes until she felt her laughter change into sobs of relief.  She dropped onto her bed, completely exhausted from the emotional turmoil.  She lay there for several minutes, staring up at the ceiling, her mind full of fanciful images of herself working in the advanced etheric laboratories in City 1, rubbing shoulders with the best and brightest in the Realm.

~*~    ~*~    ~*~

Avery Wilson stared warily at the assembling group of disparate students gathered on the square of the Llewellyn Fighting School.  She was short for her age, used to blending into crowds and disappearing into shadows.  It was a useful skill for her particular line of work.  Still, being unnoticed rankled her.  Avery tucked a strand of her chin-length brown hair behind one slightly pointed ear.  She gazed longingly back the way she had come, from the south.  The dark passages of the Shadow Consortium were a long walk away from here, and she felt the absence of her home for the past ten years keenly.

Still, she was here for a purpose.  She straightened the crocheted cardigan around her shoulders.  The garment was made from hundreds of varicolored strips of a variety of different fabric scraps and had a deep hood.  Such a garment was not ideally suited for skulking about in the shadows, but it was from her mother and Avery almost never went anywhere without it.  It meant she had to work harder to stay out of sight, but that just meant she was better at it than her fellow students.  She watched the groups of students from the fighting school and her own Shadow Consortium students mingling.  There was Dirk, talking with a pretty blonde girl from the fighting school, trying to work his charms on her.  Meredith was showing off her knife skills to a small audience of fighters.  Arthur was demonstrating proper garrotting technique with a little more energy than was strictly necessary to a purple-faced fighter twice his size.  When Arthur finally let the poor boy go, he fell to his knees gasping, but he was smiling even so.

Avery did not mingle.  She skirted the crowds, trying to find a place that was relatively uncrowded.  There were a pair of Llewellyn students chatting quietly by a bench that had been set up for the masters that were fairly isolated from the others.  She made her way over to them and hoped they didn't notice her as she lurked quietly by them.  As she approached, she made sure to concentrate her attention on them, listening in on their conversation.  The short, energetic young man who was maybe seventeen or eighteen was gesturing expressively toward another small group of Llewellyn students and seemed to be in the middle of an argument.  The boy had long black hair that was tied haphazardly back from his face in a low ponytail and he seemed physically unable to remain in one place for long.  Avery suspected that the boy he was talking to probably had ogre or giant blood in his veins, if his size was any indication.  The shorter one noticed her, which surprised Avery as people's attention generally slipped from her at first glance.

"Hello there," he said, offering a hand, "name's Jonah.  This is my friend, Odon.  Come here for the final?"

Avery stared at his hand for a few seconds, not answering.  Jonah did not retract his hand, so eventually, Avery shook it.  He seemed inordinately please by this.  "I'm Avery," she said quietly, "Shadow Consortium."

"A woman of few words," remarked the half-giant, Odon.  "Have you picked your party yet?  Seems that all the others have already been chumming up with their prospective groups."

Avery had already noticed the trend.  She knew that the final exam was, for Llewellyn Fighting School students, a two part exam.  The first part was a kind of a tournament where they beat each other up with various weapons.  The second part was a mission where the fighters were teamed with a Magisterium apprentice and a student from the Shadow Consortium.  It was generally thought to be the optimal configuration for a field team of Adventurers, though sometimes a bard was added to the group--especially if the mission was thought to be particularly dangerous.  Of course, all this changed once Adventuring parties made it out into the real world, beyond the safe walls of the Cities and into the wilds.  Real field Adventurers had their own ways of doing things that varied from the prosaic to the truly exotic.

For Shadow Consortium students, the field test with the fighting school was their final exam as well.  Each field test would involve some situation that would be impossible to solve without a student from the Shadow Consortium.  Avery sighed.  It was typical for her to spend too much time observing and not enough time acting.  She eyed the two fighters lounging next to her.  "You don't seem to have gotten very chummy with any of my colleagues," she noted suspiciously.

The short one, Jonah, glanced over his shoulder at the milling groups of people.  "Yeah, well, let's just say that there's a particular pair that I'm trying to--" he cut off as he performed a textbook Dive Into Shadows maneuver under the bench.  Avery's eyebrows lifted in surprise.  The technique was flawless, but the execution was a bit sloppy.  Like Jonah had learned it from experience rather than in the classroom.  She let her eyes flit across the milling crowd and saw two newcomers.  Odon had stiffened and his hand was resting casually on the handle of a ludicrously massive maul.

The newcomers stood out rather well.  There was a tall, rangy young man with a noble's haughty, I-own-everything walk, and stylish long brown hair brushed to a shine; and then there was another near-giant young man.  The noble's companion was not as tall as Odon, but he was wider, more heavily muscled.  His face was doughy and almost unformed with pinprick little black eyes that, Avery suspected, saw far more than most people thought.  They seemed to be looking for someone, but not very hard.  The noble said something to his big friend and they moved off further into the crowd, mingling.

"They're gone," Avery said quietly.

Jonah rolled out from under the bench and looked a little embarrassed.  "Thanks.  Me and Alistair... well, let's just say we're not best friends."

"I'm guessing Alistair isn't the one that looks like he could chew rocks," Avery said.

Odon chuckled, "No... that one's Clive.  I think Master Llewellyn may have made a mistake when he let that one into the school.  He has murder in his bones and a twisted black abyss for a heart.  I'd keep away from him if I were you."

Avery was about to make a non-committal reply--these two were obviously social outcasts and the last thing she wanted was to associate herself with washouts or misfits; she had high prospects in the Shadow Consortium and her masters watched everything--but a sudden commotion made her forget what she was going to say.  The students were all lining up according to school and she saw that the Masters of the schools were strolling out onto the green.  Jonah and Odon quickly fell into ranks and Avery broke off from them and joined her own school.

Master Shrike was dressed impeccably in a sharp, tailored grey suit with opal cuff links and shiny black shoes.  His black hair had been trimmed and was neatly styled in a severe, functional cut.  The Master of the Shadow Consortium's light blue eyes scanned the assembled students as Master Llewellyn finished some story or other.  He smiled dutifully, but Avery knew that Master Shrike wasn't really paying attention.  He could, of course, recite every word that Master Llewellyn had just said, but his focus was on his students.  

Master Llewellyn was dressed in a simple outfit of black slacks with a blindingly white shirt.  He was a big man, but his muscles had mostly given way to a comfortable pot belly.  His broad face had mutton chops that met in a large mustache but left his chin clean-shaven.  Master Llewellyn's head was mostly bald, save for a fringe of grey hair around the bottom of his skull.  He walked with a solidness that made him look clumsy compared to Master Shrike's careful steps, but Avery suspected that Master Llewellyn could put on a turn of speed that would be surprising indeed.

Along with the two Masters, there were several instructors from both schools.  They were all dressed in their finest and they all made their way to the benches arranged for them on the edge of the practice field. Master Shrike and Master Llewellyn remained standing in front of the students.  Master Shrike spoke, his thin, precise voice cut through the bright mid-morning air, "Welcome, senior students, to the final examination of the Heroes' Rest branch of the Shadow Consortium and the Llewellyn Fighting School."  The small, neat man let his words hang in the cool fall air for a few seconds as he scanned the faces of the assembled students.  "You have all been trained to be the best at your respective arts.  Adventuring is a time-honored and proven career path, though, I should note, not a career path from which many retire.  It's a perilous path you have chosen to follow; one with no guarantees, save that you will constantly face grim death in the wild areas away from safety of the Realm."  He paused again, letting his words sink in.

"To prepare you to meet those challenges, you have undertaken years of hard training with masters in your chosen fields.  These masters and instructors have all had years of experience in the field, facing the same challenges you will face.  I hope you have taken the wisdom they have all tried to impart to you to heart.  The final examination for an Adventurer is far more demanding and, yes, deadly, than that of any other career path you may have chosen to follow."  Master Shrike began to pace back and forth as he spoke, getting into his speech, "Although the final examination is not meant to be deadly, it would not be much of a metric to judge your preparedness if the possibility of injury or death were non-existent.  Rely on your training, be ready for the unexpected, and most of you will gain your Adventuring licenses at the end of this trial."  He made his way back to Master Llewellyn and nodded at the old fighter respectfully.

Master Llewellyn cleared his throat and his rich baritone voice rang out as he spoke, "Thank you, Master Shrike.  Thank you, students, for seeing through your years of training to get to this point!  It speaks to your dedication and discipline that you have made it this far!  Now, let's get this whole thing started.  I would ask the Shadow Consortium students to take a seat on the stands outside of the practice area.  We have a rather small graduating class of fighters this year, but I feel very confident in their abilities.

"Llewellyn students," he barked as the Shadow Consortium students moved off the field and into the stands, "sit down on the edge of the green.  When I call you up, you'll face off against one another with your chosen weapons."  The Llewellyn students moved quickly to obey the Master's orders and soon, they were all seated on the edge of the practice green.  "The first bout of the morning will be between Jonah, no House name, and Clive, of the Dragonmarch House!"

~*~    ~*~    ~*~

Jonah swallowed as he heard his name called.  Odon patted his shoulder comfortingly and Jonah stood on somewhat weak knees.  He went to the weapon rack and noted that the normal wooden practice blades had been replaced with live steel.  Clive approached the weapon rack from the edge of the green and his soft face was absolutely expressionless.  Those shark eyes of his, however, glittered with anticipation.  "Ah, Jonah," he said in his peculiar high pitched voice, "I'm so gratified to see that you have recovered from your... mishap on the stairs a while ago.  It would be a shame if you were to slip out there on the field and disembowel yourself."

Jonah picked out a longsword and shield from the rack and, without another look at Clive, took his place.  He readied his weapon and raised his shield, resisting the urge to bounce around on the raked dirt like a nervous first-year.  Clive took his time choosing his weapon.  Jonah ignored the creeping feeling that Clive was trying to psych him out and slipped into a trance-like battle meditation.  The technique was taught by Master Llewellyn himself.  For Jonah, the mental state made time slip by unnoticed as it heightened his physical senses.  His mind floated on the moment like a leaf on the surface of a rushing stream, never staying in one place for too long.  For Jonah, it had a calming effect, drowning out external concerns and negating the head games that many of the other students relied on to win the mental fight before weapons were ever raised.

Clive finally walked out onto the practice circle, a truly massive two-handed sword held easily in one hand.  He left his other hand empty, but took his position in a fencer's agile stance, wielding the fifteen pound sword like a rapier.  Jonah felt a thrill of fear disturb his battle meditation momentarily, but he allowed it to pass through him, not letting the fear take over.  Master Llewellyn shouted, "Begin!"

Jonah held his ground, waiting for Clive to make the first move.  He hadn't spared with the bigger fighter much in his years of training, but he knew that Clive was much quicker than he looked.  Clive seemed content to circle for now, so Jonah moved with him, waiting for an opening.  Clive suddenly charged forward, lunging with the enormous two-handed sword in a textbook fencing lunge.  In a fencing match, the opponent might be able to parry the thrust, but the two handed sword was so heavy that a parry wouldn't do much.  Jonah knew that the best thing to do would probably be to dodge out of the way and attack while Clive was recovering from the lunge, but he  had a gut feeling that this opening move was a feint and the seemingly clumsy move was far more controlled than it appeared.

So Jonah did something stupid.  He angled his shield up and swept his sword up as he stepped into the thrust, letting the enormous blade glide along his shield past his shoulder.  As he stepped in, his longsword blade slashed toward Clive's arm.  Clive twisted his wrist, turning his two-handed sword and then followed with his body, turning away from Jonah and leaving his lunge extended.  The flat of the blade caught the back of Jonah's head and sent him sprawling forward.  Jonah managed to turn the fall into a quick roll and got to his feet with his sword and shield up.  Before he had found his feet, though, Clive was there, hammering down with furious one-handed over-head blows.

Jonah just managed to get his shield up over his head, bracing against the hammer strikes of Clive's huge blade.  It was everything he could do to keep the shield up as Clive let strike after strike wear him down.  Jonah knew that he couldn't take much more of this and he would have to move or his arm would fail and Clive's sword would find his shoulder or his head.  So Jonah tensed his legs and sprang up in between one of Clive's strikes.  He moved into close range; far too close for his sword blade to do any good.  But Jonah hadn't planned on using his blade.

Clive was taken off balance by Jonah's sudden rush up and, quick as he was for his size, Jonah was still faster than him.  Jonah came in under Clive's guard and punched the crossguard of his sword into Clive's gut.  Clive grunted, but the blow didn't make him double over like Jonah had hoped.  Clive's empty hand shot forward and he grabbed Jonah by the front of his shirt and tossed the smaller man ten feet away from him.  Jonah landed on his back, the air blasted out of him.  "We find ourselves in a rather familiar situation, don't we, master Jonah?"  Clive said, not even breathing hard as he stalked forward, a small, triumphant smile beginning to grow on his doughy face.

Jonah gritted his teeth and grimaced in pain.  He couldn't catch his breath!  The huge man moved forward slowly, wary for a sudden charge.  But Clive seemed to think he had won already.  Maybe he has, Jonah thought grimly.  He willed the thought away and tipped his mind into the battle meditation again.  Time seemed to slow down and the pain from being tossed away faded.  Jonah could still only barely catch a breath, but that fact seemed far away to him now.  He tightened his grip on his sword and rolled to his feet, sword and shield up and in the guard position.

Clive stopped his forward momentum and began circling again, that small, triumphant smile still stretching his lips.  Jonah knew that if there were any more exchanges like that, he'd be done for.  Clive had a much longer reach than Jonah, even if you discounted the six foot long sword he carried.  So Jonah had to find some way to make it so that reach didn't matter.  Or strength.  Jonah gritted his teeth, wondering why in the Abyss Master Llewellyn had paired them up together.  He shook the distracting thought from his head.  He needed to put Clive on the defensive or he'd never win the bout.

Clive seemed to reach the same decision and he moved in quickly, taking long solid steps and sweeping the two-handed sword in a series of complex attack sequences.  Jonah recognized the sequence as a modified version of the Langstrom Assault.  He watched the attack sequence play out as he blocked the blows with his shield or dodged away.  If Clive was doing the Langstrom Assault on an opponent with a shield, he'd follow it up with a Peacock Deception or a Farraday Flurry.  He watched Clive's feet out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the tell-tale step that would tell him which attack the big man would choose.  Clive took a hopping half-step with his left foot and Jonah knew it would be the Peacock Deception.

The sweeping blows of the Peacock Deception were feints designed to get the attacker in position for lightning quick thrusting attacks.  It was meant for dagger work, but Clive handled the two-handed sword as adeptly as a smaller person would a dagger.  However, Jonah had been working with the first-years on their grappling work and he knew that the Peacock Deception, like any attack sequence, was vulnerable to the unexpected.  Furthermore, Clive could not respond as quickly to something unexpected because, even if the big man was strong--and he most certainly was--the two-handed sword had a lot of momentum.  So instead of parrying the next sweeping attack, he slammed the edge of his shield down onto the flat of the two-handed sword, forcing it into the ground.  Clive growled as the tip bit into the dirt.

With the tip of his two-handed sword stuck inches into the dirt, Clive did not have enough time to counter Jonah's next maneuver: he pivoted on his left foot and chopped his long sword down at Clive's wrist.  Unwilling to have his hand chopped off, Clive let go of his own sword and backed away, now disarmed.  The bigger man danced away from Jonah as he went on the offense, slashing and stabbing at Clive but unable to hit him.  Clive then rushed in and tried to pick up Jonah and throw him again, but Jonah was waiting for this.  As Clive ducked his head for the tackle, Jonah slammed his shield into his face, causing Clive's head to snap back, bright blood spraying everywhere.  Jonah followed this with a controlled, precise thrust of his longsword, which he stopped just short of puncturing the skin, at Clive's neck.  "Stop!"  Master Llewellyn called and Clive and Jonah separated.

Master Llewellyn nodded at the two students and said, "I declare the victor of this bout, Jonah, of no House name!"  Jonah wearily raised his blade in salute to his Master and to Clive and left the practice field, depositing his fighting gear on the weapon rack.  Clive, still bleeding from his smashed nose, followed silently.  The big man still wasn't breathing hard and seemed to be ignoring the pain Jonah's last blow must have caused.

"Good job in there," Odon said approvingly as Jonah sat down next to him once more, "I thought you were done for when he tossed you like a rag doll."

"Yeah, he did that to me once already today.  I can't believe I let him do it again."  Jonah rubbed at his left forearm, where he had been wearing his shield, "I'm gonna have some wicked bruises on this arm after this.  I'm rather surprised it's not broken."

"They're going to have to replace that shield, you know.  Look at it, it's useless anymore."  Odon nodded at the shield Jonah had placed on the weapon rack.  Its entire surface was dented and bent out of shape where Jonah had blocked Clive's massive sword strikes.

"Better the shield than me," Jonah said wryly, "I'm irreplaceable!  Oh, Master Llewellyn is announcing the next bout!"

~*~    ~*~    ~*~

Avery watched the Llewellyn students fight each other with a mix of boredom and amazement.  The students were obviously very good at swinging heavy bits of metal around at each other, but honestly, Avery didn't see the point of it.  By the time you had to exchange heavy blows with some sword wielding maniac in the field, the situation had already gone gravely wrong.  The trick was outmaneuvering your enemies before it got to that point.  If you couldn't find an agreement through conversation, then, sure, a well-placed dagger in the back--preferably while the enemy was asleep--was the next best thing.  But all that heavy work with swords and axes and even hammers made little sense to her.

The two boys she had met earlier seemed to do all right.  Jonah fought three more times and only lost once: to a pretty blonde who wielded a curved saber with amazing accuracy that Master Llewellyn had called Everleigh.  He had seemed more in awe of her than anything else though, and Avery wasn't sure if his head was completely in the fight.  Odon didn't lose any of his fights, and she thought she could see why.  It only took two or three blows of that huge hammer of his to break through even the stoutest defenses and Odon seemed to know his own weaknesses.  He played a slow game, where he wore his faster opponents down trying to dodge out of the way of his hits while he let his huge hammer do most of the work for him.  By the time his opponents had tried a few times to get past his guard, they were out of breath.  Then the big guy struck, slamming through their own hasty dodges or blocks with implacable skill.

Finally though, the fighters seemed to grow tired of their games and Master Llewellyn dismissed them all to have a drink of water and some lunch served out on the practice field by Llewellyn School attendants.  Avery joined the rest of the students at big wooden picnic tables as teams of kitchen staff from the Llewellyn School brought out heaping serving dishes with simple yet hearty fare piled on them.  She found a spot at the table and sat, picking out a few small portions from a pile of carved beef and some bread.  There was cold water to go with it or a cold light beer that the Shadow Consortium had brought with them to serve at table.  Avery chose the beer and was just digging in when Jonah and Odon sat down across from her.

"Ah, hello again, our quiet new friend!"  Jonah said cheerfully as he started filling his own plate.  He had a large bruise across the entire left side of his face, the consequences of staring moon-eyed at Everleigh as she punched him in a haymaker you could see coming from a mile away.

Avery raised one eyebrow sardonically, "Are you sure you passed your combat final?  I'd think your masters would take marks off for being besotted with your enemy."

Odon barked a laugh around a mouthful of bread.  "I like her," he said, his voice muffled by food, "she's got a good sense of humor!"

Jonah gingerly touched his face and grimaced theatrically, "What can I say?  They must have been impressed by my performance in, um, the other bouts."

Avery shrugged noncommittally.  She took a sip of beer and said, "So what's next?"

"I guess once lunch is done, the masters will hand out mission specs for us," Jonah said casually, "I have no idea if groups will be assigned or if we'll be left to choose our own."

"That's actually why we came to see you," Odon said.  "We were wondering if you'd join us if we're allowed to choose our own groups."

Avery glanced up and down the table, noticing that other groups of fighters had seated themselves in little huddles with other Shadow Consortium students.  It didn't look like there were any who didn't have a group.  She pulled the hood of her colorful cardigan up, tucking her hair back behind her ears at the same time.  "I don't know..." she mumbled, "no offense.  It's just that... well..."

"She noticed that we aren't exactly the most popular people in the school," Jonah said, humor warming his bitter tone.

Avery nodded.  "Yes, that's it exactly," she said, "I'm glad you understand."

Odon shrugged, "It's not exactly a big secret... I mean, it's not like you were our first choice either.  But it looks like everyone else had their eye on the others in our class."

"There's a line of dandies jockeying for a place in Everleigh's group," Jonah noted sourly.

Avery just nodded, taking a small bite from the meat on her plate. Jonah sighed and said, "Look, I don't know if we'll even have the choice, but just in case... Well, wouldn't you rather make the choice than have it decided by default?"

"What's the point?  If you're all that's left and we'll be together by process of elimination, what difference does it make?"

Jonah grinned, "It makes all the difference in the world!  Instead of reacting to your environment, you're making a decision.  It's your choice, not something you're forced to do."

"Wow," Avery said flatly, "a warrior and a philosopher.  How sophisticated."  She rolled her eyes.  "Fine.  I'll work with you.  It's only one mission.  After we graduate, we'll probably never see each other again."

Odon shrugged, "Perhaps.  But Adventurers are a pretty rare breed,"  he smiled, "you have to be a special kind of stupid to actually want to go into the Wilds, even if it's as brimming with treasure and knowledge as they say it is."

Avery was about to reply, but activity by the Master's table interrupted her.  There was a junior fighting student leaning in to speak in Master Llewellyn's ear.  The old fighter listened for a moment, nodded at the student who ran back in the direction of the school, and then stood up from his seat.  He boomed in his big bass voice, "Students, honored guests!  Please, a moment of your time!"  Quiet descended on the assembled students in quick order and Master Llewellyn beamed amiably at them.  "It seems that the Magisterium apprentices are resting within the Llewellyn School now.  I have also been informed that we will be further honored to have a full Magister joining in the final exam today.  Runners have already been sent to lead them out to the green here and we'll be joined by them shortly.  Please show every respect to the apprentices.  Who knows?  You might be working with or for one of them one day!"  With that announcement, he sat back down and began speaking quietly with Master Shrike.

Immediately, a buzz of conversation moved up and down the student tables.  Jonah twisted his mouth into a cynical frown, "Some Magisterium brat trying to throw his weight around," he said dismissively, "he'll probably be some kind of insufferable politico type, fat from banquets in the Cities and probably resentful that he's here."

Avery nodded.  She'd seen plenty of Magisters that matched Jonah's description.  One thing did confuse her though, "Some might say the same of us.  I mean, the training we take on at the Shadow Consortium isn't exactly cheap.  Adventuring isn't exactly the dream career for most families, but, if you're any good at it, it can make you very rich."

Jonah barked out a harsh laugh, "So should I be addressing you as My Lady?  Are you some Magister's disappointing daughter who's 'unable to master the mysteries of the arcane'?"  He waggled his fingers and bugged his eyes out comically, "Or maybe you're some High Merchant's daughter who's attending the Shadow Consortium in a rare fit of integrity, so she can be a thief in truth as well as title!"

Avery stared at him coldly, stood up, and tossed the rest of her beer into his face.  She sat back down again and refilled her mug calmly, going back to munching on her lunch.  "You," she said around a mouthful of food, "don't know anything about me.  Also, you're an idiot." she lifted her mug of beer and paused while Jonah sputtered indignantly.

Odon burst out laughing while Jonah mopped at himself with a napkin.  Avery just watched him coolly.  He seemed about to make some kind of angry retort, but, surprisingly, he stopped himself and sighed.  "That's what Odon tells me.  Constantly.  Look, I'm sorry I said all that about you.  I can be an ass sometimes."

"Sometimes?"  Avery said.  "Since I've met you, you've been beaten up by a girl you were obviously head-over-heels for during your final, you've spouted off some sort of pseudo philosophical platitudes about free will, then made a sweeping judgement.  Jonah, you only have up to go from here."

"Well, that's something at least," Jonah tossed the napkin on the table, frowning down at his beer-soaked shirt.  "In any case, I really am sorry.  Maybe we can get to know each other a little bit better on the mission."

"Assuming we even have a choice," Odon said, finally recovered from his laughing fit.

Avery shrugged.  She didn't really want to get to know these two fighters, but Master Shrike made a special point about 'inter-party dynamics' and the psychology of adventuring groups.  He seemed to think it was important that some kind of bond existed.  If he thought it was important, then it probably was.  "We'll see," she said grudgingly, then fell silent as she picked at her food.

That seemed to satisfy Jonah and Odon anyway.  The two began talking about their bouts earlier that morning and Avery tuned them out.  Their banter reminded her of her little sister, Nellie, back in City 7.  They had shared such moments right before she had left for school.  She would be, what, fourteen now?  Fifteen?  She unconsciously slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out the little wooden doll she kept there.  She stared down at its crudely painted face, now mostly worn away.  She thought of her mother and father, briefly, before pulling her memories away.  Focus on the present.  Observe and analyze.  Stay alive.  Still, she felt the prickle of unshed tears and wiped at her eyes as she tucked the little doll back into her pocket.  The only thing to do now was wait.